


Not Your Future

by plastics



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Dubious Consent, Infidelity, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 20:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19775503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastics/pseuds/plastics
Summary: Vince is going to do whatever the hell Vince wants to do. Markus can only watch, at this point.





	Not Your Future

Markus has been feeling far too much like a B-movie stereotype recently: bones grinding, head aching, kids that look at him with suspicion, Markus looking back in confusion, a wife who barely tolerates him, chasing after some other damn kids that aren’t even his, a job that stopped being fun long ago—too old for this shit type shit, basically.

But Markus still answers calls from his GM on his days off, like a sucker, turns away from the course and eases himself down into the golf cart as they get past the pleasantries, and, eventually, it comes.

“You know, we’ve been having some trouble reaching Sterling,” Pat says. Markus squints against the sun. It’s a beautiful day. He can feel the tell-tale heat on his forearms promising a burn later, on top of the warmth left over from the bottles of empties cluttering their bags.

“What, like, he’s not answering his phone?” Markus asks.

Pat sighs deep and responds, “He’ll answer, but it won’t go anywhere. Says to direct all contract talk to his agent.”

Markus hums. Ten feet away, Jared is aiming his next shot at Aaron, who appears to have been distracted by a nearby bird. Jared is looking at Markus, grinning wickedly, like, _Watch this._ Markus doesn’t know how he’s surrounded himself the way he was.

When it becomes clear Markus isn’t about to volunteer, Pat asks, “You’re from the same city as him, don’t you?”

“A bit outside, actually,” Markus says. Neither of them were from Los Santos, truly. Markus had followed his wife out to the suburbs, and Vince was from the sort of border neighborhood that made him buy an apartment downtown faster than he’d found a place back in Carcer City. 

“Well, do you think you could find time to talk him through the decision he’s making?” Pat says. “You know he looks up to you, it’d go a long way in negotiations.”

Jared takes his swing and Aaron crumples with a scream. From this distance, it’s unclear how serious the damage is. Markus considers getting up for a few seconds, but then Aaron rounds up and tackles Jared at the knees with another ferocious yell. In his ear, Pat is making more noises about leadership and maturity and setting examples.

“Listen, Pat,” Markus says when there’s an acceptable pause in the conversation. “Sterling has his own ideas about things, I don’t think anyone is going to have much luck convincing him of jack.”

“But you’ll try,” Pat affirms. Markus doesn’t quite remember making that commitment, but the conversation ends without him saying he won’t, either.

* * *

On the surface, yes, Vince is an easy person to get in touch with, when he wants to be. He ignores Markus’ phone call but texts him in four quick bursts, _yeah, lets get dinner, i know a place, meet at 9?_

Markus responds slowly, _Okay. I’ll have to put the kids to bed but after that I should be free,_ even though Rachel probably won’t be thrilled about him leaving again today. Or, hell, maybe she will be.

Vince sends back a 🤙🏽

* * *

It’s closer to quarter of ten by the time Markus makes it out to the address Vince sent him, which is almost definitely a bar that happens to serve food. The twists halfway down the block, but Vince is waiting at the door, casual as anything. Markus is struck hard by how in-place Vince looks; when the team had first added him to the roster pretty much straight out of the draft, he’d been _young,_ awkward, desperate to prove that he deserved to play with men, spent like burning through his paycheck was the only thing keeping him warm.

Now, though, when Vince looks up and grins, guides Markus past the line and to a private table. The bar is loud, lush, crowded—very Vinny. He’s practically preening when Markus’ eyes settle back on him, and, yeah, that’s also very Vinny. Except—

“Did you get your _nose pierced?”_ Markus asks, aghast and a little embarrassed by it, eyes caught on the silver stud. For being so small, it seems so start against the rest of his face. If Pat had asked randomly for Markus to describe Vince, he’d have said boyish: wide-eyed, soft-lipped, his features rounded, cute. Now, though, looking at him, he was clearly not the kid who’d first walked into his locker room. There’s a hardness to his jaw. His eyes.

But he’s smiling as he says, teasing, “Maybe. Do you like it?”

“It’s, uh,” Markus starts. He can imagine how this conversation would unfold with the guys. Yeah, his wife had one in college, what’s next, his ears, his tits, is he looking for a spot on the cheer team, they probably have a spare skirt laying around—he asks, “Are you going to keep it in for the season?”

“Maybe,” Vince says again, but his smile lessens. “You thirsty? Hungry?”

He raises an arm—built and well-toned, not skipping out on summer workouts—to wave over a beautiful woman in a black bodysuit bearing a menu far beyond IPAs and potato skins. Markus lets Vince do the ordering. His hand is on the bottle girl’s waist, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Vince just has that effect on people. A real charmer.

Markus isn’t half as slick, so when he starts, “Silver, listen—” what he’s getting at registers immediately on Vince’s face. Nothing so obvious as a scowl, but there was a warmth that Markus didn’t even notice until it left.

“Come on, let’s not ruin the night by talking business,” Vince says, sounding final, like _don’t push it,_ then the girl is back, and the drinks are good.

The drinks are very good. Technically, Markus doesn’t drink anymore, but anything he does with the team is just a social thing. He’s not drinking a lot tonight. Just enough to feel it; a little warmth in his chest, a heaviness in his head. Vince starts smiling in a way that touches his eyes again. The girl keeps coming back. It’s her job, but Markus wonders if the night will end with Vince peeling that lycra and mesh off of her, big hands on a tiny waist, if he’s the type to put that mouth to good use—

But Vince’s hands never wander too far, and, after signing off on a generous tip, he’s saying to Markus, instead, “You wanna come back to my place?”

Markus hesitates. Rachel would probably be mad if he didn’t come home. Rachel would probably be mad if he came back this late in the first place, nevermind late and drunk. Tipsy.

“It’s not like you can drive like this,” Vince adds, and that’s true, too.

So Vince does something with Markus’ car, calls them a sleek black SUV, and they’re on their way. Markus spends most of the ride with his forehead resting against the window. Maybe he drank more than he thought. It’s harder to tell how much booze is in those fancy drinks, sometimes.

The building Vince lives in is a newer development. He was an original tenant when he first moved in, and years later it still has that glossy showcase shine to it. Markus has only been here a handful of times, but it still astounds him. Even before the kids, Markus was never the type to keep things orderly. _Lived in,_ he likes to say.

 _Listen,_ Vince responded, _you grow up with as many siblings as I did, and just having things where the fuck you want them becomes a privilege,_ and then it’d made sense, how finicky he was in the locker room, easy to rile up over even the most basic prank—absolutely apocalyptic about some snipped laces.

The memory makes Markus laugh. When Vince glances at him, Markus repeats the story. It makes Vince roll his eyes, grimacing into his glass of water, and that raises a gurgle of sadness in Markus’ chest. He didn’t exactly have the easiest time in his first years in the league, but he remembers those times so fondly, too, as the foundation of the best years of his life.

Markus starts, “I just don’t get—”

“Stop,” Vince interrupts. “Markus, I like you a lot, but just. Stop.”

And, okay, Markus may never have been the smartest guy, but even he knows it was never just laces. Never just the team. Vince had hated every lump that came with being the young guy in the room. Resented lingering in the minors, every game night scratch, every minute of play lost to a senior player who’d worked their whole career to be where they are. That hate is good, a lot of the time. It makes guys work harder. But Vince—

Vince stayed hard. He came into the last year of his rookie contract, tore that extra inch out of Coach’s hands after Kohl’s knee gave out for real, and set the league on fire. Broke the team’s playoff drought near single-handedly.

And now, Vince wants to get paid like it. Everyone back home is calling him selfish, wants him to sign like his hands are tied. But the fact of the matter is that the team is shouldering some bloated contracts built more on reputation than recent production—Markus’ included, at this point—and for Vince to sign, he’d have to be feeling real friendly to go that far below market value.

It just makes Markus so _sad._ He loves this kid, honestly. Wants the world for him. Wants him to come home.

“I wish,” Markus starts again, and then he has to swallow hard to continue. The floor beneath him swirls a little, and he picks up at, “Fuck, I don’t even know. Wish we were enough for you.”

When he looks up again, Vince is standing much closer than Markus remembers, eyes half-lidded. He says, “Markus. I like _you_ a lot.”

Then, there are lips against Markus’, somehow. Vinny’s lips. He kisses nicer than Markus would have guessed; when Vince’s teeth bite into his lower lip, it’s with a nice, hot drag that sends sparks down Markus’ entire body. They’re the same size in every way that counts, but Vince’s hands feet strong where they’re squeezing at the side of Markus’ neck, his shoulders, arms.

There are a million reasons why this is a bad idea. Fucking your teammate is a bad idea. Fucking your demanding, hardheaded, brilliantlly talented teammate who’s over ten years younger than you and is in the process of either making or breaking his life is a bad fucking idea. Markus is _married._ He stood in front of God and his parents and the woman he loved and made a promise.

Markus does try. He runs his hands down Vince’s trembling arms and says his name, once, before getting interrupted.

“What if I sign,” Vince says between sharp, biting kisses down Markus’ neck, then further, pushing up Markus’ shirt as he kneels, mouth pressed against his stomach. “A bridge deal or something.”

Vince’s face is pressed into the v of his hips, and it wasn’t hard to figure out what Vince was attempting to get at, hands tugging impatiently at the button of Markus’ jeans. 

There is so much for Markus to feel guilty about. Maybe he should have stepped in earlier to protect Vince in the locker room. Maybe he should have seen this coming and given him a wide berth, let him figure things out on his own time. Maybe he should have been harder, cracked Vince open himself and uprooted that sense of X sitting behind his eyes even now, staring up at Markus, daring him.

Markus shouldn’t. He really, truly, shouldn’t. The team needs Vince. That’s not what’s happening here, but it could be, at least, something.

Markus swallows, and says, throat dry, “It’d give you time to prove last year wasn’t a fluke.”

And Vince, looking all the world like he netted the biggest contract of the year, just hums and pulls out Markus’ half-hard cock.

**Author's Note:**

> What happens when you misread a prompt, then can't convince the vet he doesn't want to fuck, _then_ can't get them to fuck at all. Happy offseason, folks.


End file.
